


to take joy and give pain

by evocates



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Character Death, Child Abuse, Historical References, M/M, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5196173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Bible, it was written: “Therefore shall love be to give joy and to take pain, and blessed all be those so granted by the LORD.”</p><p>Aaron Burr should have known that Alexander Hamilton would be different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kikibug13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kikibug13/gifts).



> **Notes:** Aaron Burr is taking over my brain. Send help. I am not in this fandom. Also, inspired by kikibug13 when she said that she could see Burr being in love with Hamilton, but not Hamilton reciprocating. In fact, she could not even see Hamilton respecting Burr and seeing him as an equal. I thought too much and this was the result.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Implications of child sexual abuse, major character death, horrific angst, and way too much information about Aaron Burr’s life. Also, I’ve never watched the play (still two continents away, still no tickets), so everything, including body language, is estimated from tonality of voice and made up according to plot convenience.

There was a growing patch of red at Hamilton's side. Burr stepped closer. He waved away their seconds and the doctor when they tried to stop him.

"I can save him," he said. "Let me save him."

Perhaps it was the certainty in his tone, so unlike anything anyone had ever heard. They backed away.

“By dawn I will be at death’s door,” Hamilton was murmuring, over and over. His head shook from side to side, mussing his hair, turning mahogany to dirt.

Those bright brown eyes were glazed over with pain. He tried to focus on Burr, but his eyes slid away.

Burr smiled; that was fitting. That was right.

( _It's better this way._ )

“What are you giving up so easily for?” he said.

He fell to his knees; it was now easy to ignore the ever-present ache. His hand slipped beneath Hamilton's vest and shirt until he could feel the warm blood on his fingers. It was the first time he touched Hamilton in years. He closed his eyes.

He took his shot back.

Then he stood up, wavering a little on his feet. Through his greying vision, he saw Hamilton's eyes begin to clear.

Here was an itemised list of mementos from the man who should have been the other half of his soul: stones in his knees, a Gordian knot in his stomach, and an eagle-torn wound at his side.

Van Ness and Pendleton were staring at him. Doctor Hosack checked Hamilton's side, peeling away cloth to reveal what even Burr could see as pristine skin, three shades paler than the soil beneath his body.

"He's healed," the man said, and joined the other two men in staring. Burr kept his smile on.

"Row me back across the Hudson," he said.

Van Ness did. Ever loyal, he even managed to convince Hosack to stay with Hamilton as they brought him back to his wife.

( _It’s better this way_.)  
**  
*****

The bride and the groom of the Hamilton-Schuyler wedding were surrounded by their friends and family.

Correction: Elizabeth Schuyler – now Elizabeth Hamilton – was surrounded by friends and family, while Hamilton, newly-wedded with his military coat freshly-pressed and laundered, stood across his three friends.

Burr stood at the corner of the room. He already had a glass of champagne in his hand – courtesy of a passing waiter. He had no wish to go forward to greet either Hamilton or Eliza. He did not even know why he decided to come.

“Why,” Hamilton’s voice, always loud, rang across the room and bounced off the stone walls. “If it isn’t Aaron Burr!”

Raising his glass, Burr tossed a messy salute. “Sir.”

Hamilton made his way through what seemed like half of the extended Schuyler family, walking over to Burr. His friends, predictably, followed him – Laurens had a hand on Hamilton’s elbow, steadying his slightly-staggering footsteps. Burr hid a grimace behind his glass.

Laurens, like Washington, never liked him.

“I came to say congratulations,” he said once Hamilton was in speaking distance. It was the half-truth; the best he knew to tell.

Mulligan and Lafayette immediately started to rag on him. Burr lowered his glass, dismissing them. His eyes were fixed on Hamilton.

Perhaps it was the flush on his cheeks. Perhaps it was the brightness of his eyes. Perhaps it was the joy and triumph that seemed to seep out of his every pore. But Burr was suddenly reminded of the story of Moses and the burning tree, and wondered if the old prophet had felt his eyes seared like this. If his heart had pounded in his ears so very loudly.

He wasn’t aware of what was being said, or even what he saying. 

( _Look at what he does to you_.)

His knees were aching – an old thing now. He sipped more champagne to try to ease the sudden twisting ache deep in his stomach, a hunger within that could never be filled no matter how much he ate. It didn’t work, of course, but it distracted him long enough to be surprised when Hamilton’s friends started to leave.

Laurens was the most reluctant: his hand lingered on the crook of Hamilton’s elbow as he moved away. He shot Burr what was likely a warning look. 

Hamilton looked a little dazed, and he swayed on the spot.

Instinctively, Burr reached out. He gripped onto Hamilton’s arm, steadying him. The cloth was thick enough for him to not feel the heat of his skin.

“Come on,” he said in a low voice. “Let’s get you sitting before you fall down.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Hamilton said. He threw his hand over Burr’s shoulders. Briefly, his skin touched the nape of his neck, and Burr scrambled to not drop his glass of champagne as his head _spun,_ hard.

“Are you sure _you_ can still count?”

“Better than you can,” Burr said, dryly. “You really shouldn’t have gone to town.”

“What better night to do that than the night of my wedding?” Hamilton countered. But he was obeying well enough, stumbling even as Burr led him to the nearest couch. His neck ached from craning away from Hamilton’s arm, but it was an easier thing to bear than to touch.

“You keep doing that, and it’s the morning you’d be dreading,” Burr said.

He deposited Hamilton on the couch. His hand gripped onto one shoulder – still thin despite the years, despite the cloth – and steadied the other man before he could start lolling all over the cushions.

“But then I’d have the bedding,” Hamilton grinned. He shook his head, smacking the side of it with the palm of his hand.

When he looked up to Burr, his eyes were clear.

“Lafayette said... I wished you’ve brought your girl with you tonight, Burr.”

Closing his eyes, Burr bit back a sigh. “I’m afraid that’d be unlawful, sir.”

“Come off it.” Hamilton laughed, eyes brightening. “What has you so deterred?” he asked, because he could not leave anything alone.

“She’s married to a British officer,” Burr said, trying to not snap. He jutted his chin out, staring at Hamilton.

At the back of his mind, he saw: Clever Theodosia with her petite hands and long fingers. Gentle Theodosia who could ease his headaches with her teas even if she could not do so with her touch. Sweet Theodosia who looked at him with her bright green eyes and never once made his head spin like this with just a touch. 

He drained the last of his champagne.

“I’ll take my leave now,” he said, because it was better than reminding Hamilton about the trials of adultery; the very thing that made him a bastard and an orphan. “I’ll see you on the other side of the war.”

Burr turned to leave. But his hand was disobedient, and he caught Hamilton’s bare one. His lips curved upwards, and he held the smile even as he _pulled_ at deep something within him. His head spun even more, the room greying at the edges.

Hamilton blinked. His eyes cleared, then darkened. He shook his head, as if surprised. 

He opened his mouth, and closed it. “I’ll see you on the other side of the war,” he echoed.

“Have a good rest of the night, Hamilton,” Burr said. “Don’t end up on the floor.”

Sketching another bow, Burr placed the champagne glass onto the nearest table he could find, and swept out of the Schuylers’ Hall.

***

Two years after he first met Alexander Hamilton, Aaron Burr was holding a cup of tea in his hands, and looking into the eyes of a married woman whom he thought he could love; whom he, perhaps, already loved.

(It shouldn’t be possible for one’s heart to be split in twain like this. Perhaps it was; he wasn’t sure. In his letters to his sister, he spoke of his affections to be like that of siblings beloved.)

“Your teas are a marvel for the headaches, Mrs. Prevost,” he said, and lowered his eyes to stared into the swirling brown depths.

Her hand was small and pale upon his, fingers almost stark paper-white against his dark, callused knuckles. She was the wife of a British officer, he reminded himself. It would not be proper.

“It’s my pleasure to ease you in any way I can, Mr. Burr,” she said. There was such sweet melodiousness in her voice that he could not help but look up again.

He swallowed. “Therefore shall love be to give joy and to take pain, and blessed all be those so granted by the LORD,” he said. His tongue felt sticky, but the words came easily enough.

“Do you believe in the hand of Fate, madam?”

She blinked, clearly startled. Drawing back, she set her hands back into her lap, looking out of the little pavilion where they were seated into the gardens of her home.

“We know little about the will of God, sir,” she murmured. Burr had to lean in just to be able to hear her. “God gives and He takes, and we know not which is which until years later, when we have grown wiser and gained a little of His omniscient sight.”

Burr looked at the depths of his teacup again. He took a sip. His temple throbbed.

“If we know, by a clear sign, there is a path we are guided by Fate’s hand to take…” he trailed off. At the back of his mind, he could see a shadow with hair tied up in a ponytail, and lips that moved and moved without end, speaking words he could not hear.

“The Lord gives us choice,” Mrs. Prevost said. She looked back at him, and her smile was crooked. “We have little choice in what is given to us, sir, but our actions… We choose our own actions, and that leads us down the paths we take in the end.”

She smoothed out her smile, and tucked a strand of auburn hair back behind her ears. “This is, of course, but the opinion of a mere woman.”

“There is nothing ‘mere’ about you,” Burr said fiercely. He reached out, taking a risk, acting on impulse. ( _Maybe Hamilton’s hunger from what seems to be an age ago has imprinted itself on your skin._ ) Shoving the cup onto a nearby table, he took her hand, and pressed his lips to the back of it.

Her eyes widened. “Mr. Burr,” she said. She did not try pull away. 

He lowered his eyes. “If,” he said, and now the words stuck in his throat. It would be terribly funny if it was not so pathetic – he could say a dozen things to other women when all he wanted for them was to have them in his bed, he could say a dozen more to men when he wanted what they could give, and yet now… Now…

“If the Lord gives us choice,” he said, echoing her words. “Then I know what mine is.”

There was an ache in his knees. There was a knot in his stomach. Burr refused to acknowledge that either could mean anything. If there was anything he had learned, it was that life took and took, and all he could do was to try to grab the pieces that were left.

Mrs. Prevost’s hand slipped out of his. He stared at the gaps in between his fingers now that hers had left.

“The choices we make, sir, must not doom us.”

She cupped his cheek. When he lifted his eyes, she was smiling. Her eyes were shadowed with sorrow, the leaf-brilliant green fading as the sun withdrew its light from the Earth.

“Wait.”

A single word, and the world snapped back into place.

In the Bible, it was said that Eve was made from the rib of Adam. His grandfather’s recorded sermons – the last thing Burr had left of him – always said: if God had His hand on your soul, and chose you, then it would be because you and the one He chose for you were akin to Adam and Eve.

Hamilton could never be a part of him. He was flame, Burr was water. He was earth; Burr was wind. They were opposing forces, and there could never be any part of them that was joined.

There was an ever-present ache in his knees. There was a twist to his belly, a hunger that never ceased. He had not touched, had not even seen Hamilton, for the past two years. None of that meant anything more than the constant headaches that plagued him.

Burr smiled. He turned his head, and closed his hand around Mrs. Prevost’s wrist. He placed a gentle kiss on her fingertips. Her nails were smooth and white, so much unlike a soldier’s.

“I will wait,” he said.

She smiled. He held her hand a little tighter, and made his choice.

( _Maybe you have made it a long time ago. Maybe it’s already made for you, the first time Hamilton turned his back and headed for those three men in the barroom._

 _It’s always easier to make do with what you have than to try to take it._ )

***  
**  
** When Aaron Burr was thirteen years old, newly arrived to Princeton College, his mentor, a man named Paterson, pulled him into his lap one day. His hand stroked through Burr’s hair, and he pressed his nose behind his ear.

“You smell as sweet as a woman,” he said. Burr could feel the curve of his smile against his skin. He stifled a flinch – there was nothing good that would come out of showing one’s discomfort – and pulled his lips back into a smile.

“What did you want to talk to me about, sir?”

“Call me Paterson,” his mentor urged. His hand stroked through Burr’s hair again. “Do you know the story of when Adam cried?”

Burr closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said.

*

_And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed._

_And there were trees in the garden, and with every tree there were roots. One morn, the Woman tripped, and she fell to her knees._

_And so it was that Man knew blood, and pain, and therefore Man knew tears._

_Man looked up to the skies, and cried, LORD, grant us mercy!_

_So once more the LORD God cast a deep sleep upon the Man and the Woman; they slept, and when they woke, the wound of Woman was now on Man’s skin._

_The LORD God said, She was made flesh of your flesh, bone of your bone; your flesh and your bone will now heal her._  
  
*

“Therefore shall love be to give joy and to take pain, and blessed all be those so granted by the LORD,” Burr said. His unbroken voice could not imitate his grandfather’s – or what he thought his grandfather would have sounded – but he tried to deepen it, nonetheless.

“Genesis 2,” Paterson nodded. His hand cupped the back of Burr’s skull. “It is said that all those who have luck to be so chosen by the Lord will feel joy, and all pain taken from them, the moment they met their soulmates.”

Burr smiled again: he knew what he was supposed to say. He shifted a little off Paterson's lap, turning to face the older man.

“There is joy in the sight of you, sir,” he murmured. “And your hand is helping to soothe my headache.”

Paterson's lips widened. Unbidden, Burr was reminded of an illustration of a shark, or perhaps even a crocodile. He stifled down another urge to flinch.

When Paterson leaned in to kiss him, he opened his mouth, and did nothing more.

***

Years passed. Theodosia died. Burr found something possible for him to want. ( _Nothing much, just a room, and isn’t that perfectly appropriate for you?_ ) Somehow, that led him to here.

Here: the duelling field of Weehawken, the dawn casting orange streaks across the early summer leaves. The still-brown strands of Hamilton’s greying hair gleamed, turning into bronze; into liquid, shimmering gold.

Burr looked away, and checked the gun in his hand. It was not his; it was Hamilton’s.

There was anger simmering within him, reaching down deep inside. Strong enough to make his head spin, deep enough to make his knees ache. It twisted double-knots in his stomach and spread its fingers through his ribs, closing around his heart and squeezing. 

He didn’t realise he had enough of a heart left to feel that weight, but it seemed that he was wrong about that too. Something else Hamilton had taken from him.

Light glinted off Hamilton’s glasses. He was not smiling. Burr felt his own lips curve upwards in automatic response. Hamilton’s eyes narrowed, visible even from this distance away.

But he didn’t say a word.

“Is that what it takes for you to stop talking now?” Burr called, unable to help himself. “Just smiling at you?”

“Ten paces!” Pendleton called out. As the challenged, Hamilton had the right to choose for his second to be referee.

Burr didn’t move; he waited.

“You heard the man, Burr,” Hamilton said finally. “Take your cue.”

“Will that,” Burr murmured, “give me my dues?”

Van Ness’s eyes lingered on him; he had heard. Burr ignored the man: he knew his question, but his answer was too complicated, too tangled in the years of history, for anyone but him and Hamilton to understand.

No, not even Hamilton. 

He stepped into place, counting ten paces from the tree where duellists traditionally used as a middle point. There was ritual to such things, like a dance with a series of steps that must be carefully observed, especially in polite society.

Pendleton started to count.

 _One,_  
  
The sun peeped out from behind the clouds. 

_Two,_

Its light glinted off Hamilton’s glasses

_Three,_

The barrel of Hamilton’s pistol caught the glare. 

_Four,_

Surrounded by light, Hamilton looked terribly small.

_Five,_

He looked terribly beautiful. 

_Six,_

His finger was on the trigger.

_Seven,_

Burr could not see his eyes.

_Eight,_

__He remembered the sight of Hamilton’s back as he turned away.

 _Nine,_  
  
Was this his last attempt to gain some sort of respect from this man?

 _Ten_ ,

Well, Hamilton was looking at him now.

“WAIT!”

Leaves rustled above Burr’s head. 

Through the falling leaves – glimmering, half-bright as his gentle Theodosia’s eyes – he saw Hamilton fall.

His gun dropped onto the grass. It fell, silent.

Burr moved, his hand outstretched, reaching—

“Let me save him,” he said. His voice sounded like it came from far away. “I can save him.”

_Reaching—_

__He reached. He touched.

***  
**  
** The year of Our Lord, 1776. 

Aaron Burr was in New York, outside the gates of Princeton. His hair was close-cropped, and though he was only eighteen, he felt he was older, and aging with every single day he heard the yells and shouts of revolutionaries on the streets.

It was autumn, nearing winter. There was an incoming headache threatening at the back of his skull. He drew his coat closer to himself, continuing to walk down the streets. His eyes kept straight ahead so he would not accidentally look into the eyes of anyone else.

“Excuse me,” a voice said. “Are you Aaron Burr, sir?”

Burr stopped. His hands fell from the lapels of his coat to his pockets. He straightened, and smiled.

“That depends,” he said. “Who’s asking?”

The man- the _boy_ standing in front of him had brown hair the shade of the tall mahogany that used to be in front of Burr’s Princeton dormitory. His eyes were almost the same shade – brighter. His lips were curved up into an uncertain thing that could be called a smile if one was charitable enough.

He was beautiful.

“Oh sure, sir,” the man said. He sketched a messy bow that had none of the decorum and rigid style that Burr was used to. “I’m Alexander Hamilton. I’m at your service, sir. I have been looking for you.”

“I’m getting nervous,” Burr said: a little white lie, made in hope of easing the tension out of those too-thin shoulders. He injected a little humour into his voice as well.

“Sir,” the boy, Hamilton, started. He fidgeted, and took a breath. 

“I heard your name at Princeton. I was seeking an accelerated course of study when I got sort of out of sorts with a buddy of yours. I might have punched him. It’s a blur, sir. He handles the financials?”

Burr’s lips twitched despite himself. He stifled the urge, and widened his smile instead. “You punched the bursar.”

Distantly, he realised that his headache was fading away. Funny, he would have thought it would do the opposite; the boy Hamilton was everything he had been trying to avoid – there was too much fire in his eyes, too much urge to prove himself in the thrumming of his body. It should have made Burr tired just to look at him.

Scratch that: it _did_ make Burr tired just to look at him.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Burr asked, cutting Hamilton off before he could dig himself deeper into the hole. No one sane ever wanted to commiserate over being an orphan, or declare to want a war out loud.

“That would be nice,” Hamilton blinked.

“While we’re talking, let me offer you some free advice,” Burr said. “Talk less, smile more.”

“You can’t be serious,” Hamilton blurted out, exactly proving his point. Burr’s smile widened, just a little more, as he continued dragging the boy towards the nearest watering-hole.

Halfway through, Hamilton shuddered. He tripped over his own feet, and crashed down onto his knees.

“Fools who ran their mouths,” Burr was in the middle of saying. He blinked, stopping himself. Reaching out, his hand closed around Hamilton’s bicep. The shirt the boy was wearing was thin enough that he could feel the heat of his skin.

Burr nearly stumbled himself when he felt pain burst in his knees, and bit the inside of his cheek, _hard_.

No. No, it _couldn’t_ be.

He yanked his hand backwards. Taking a breath, he calmed himself. All of the words he was planning to say escaped him, and Hamilton was looking at him with wide, too-bright eyes.

“Mr. Burr, sir? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Burr said. He took a step back, giving Hamilton the space to stand. He ignored the way his knees ached; it was surely just the cold. 

“Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

He practically shepherded Hamilton into the bar. They found seats near the counter, and it wasn’t long before Burr had a pint of beer in his hand. He pushed Hamilton’s over to him, but the boy seemed fixated on his own legs.

“Did you scrape your knees when you fell?” Burr asked, because it was polite to. He already knew.

“No, I…”

His eyes darted away, suddenly captivated. Burr followed his gaze. There, in the corner of the barroom, were three familiar-looking men. They were leaning on each other and laughing, obviously tipsy despite the rather early time of the night. Burr took a drink of his beer, and tried to hide behind the glass.

He hadn’t been avoiding revolutionaries for days to be accosted by tipsy ones in a bar.

No dice; they came over. He stifled down the scowl and gave them a smile along with the refusal to join them.

“If you stand for nothing, Burr, what do you fall for?” Hamilton asked, breaking in.

Burr blinked. He looked over to the boy, whose eyes were now suddenly too wide and too bright at the same time, like a deer who found itself at the end of a gun’s barrel. His lips stretched upwards just a little more, and he stepped backwards to let those three grab Hamilton.

Just before Hamilton disappeared amongst them, Burr brushed his hand right against the nape of his neck.

Hunger slammed into him, a twisting feeling deep inside his belly. Burr watched, eyes half-lidded, as Hamilton tried to turn, tried to look at him. Hamilton opened his mouth. 

Raising his glass, Burr shoved his hand back inside his pocket as he stood from the counter’s stool. 

It was just the cold.

He wasn’t needed here. He left.

***

On July the 12th, 1804, Aaron Burr died with his daughter by his side, and a pen in his hand.


	2. Three Letters, Delivered by Theodosia Alston (née Burr) to Alexander and Elizabeth Hamilton in the Immediate Aftermath of Aaron Burr’s Death

_Torn half-page of paper. Smeared with red at the corners._

> To Whom It May Concern, 
> 
> Alexander Hamilton did not shoot me. The wound was self-inflicted. 
> 
> Thank you for your service. 
> 
> A. Burr 

_The paper was ragged on one edge, clearly torn from a book, or a journal. There were droplets of dark, brownish red._

_The handwriting is legible, barely. The hand that wrote it seemed to shake terribly._

> Dear Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton,
> 
> If you are reading this, I am dead. My apologies. 
> 
> I have a favour to ask: my little girl, Theodosia, is only nineteen years old. She is yet to be married. Due to my own experiences, I would rather she not be fostered with my or my late wife's family. If it is convenient for you, please find her a place where she will be allowed to continue with her education and, if possible, find some happiness. You've always had more friends than me, Hamilton. There has never been a bad word spoken of you in any circle worth knowing, Madam. 
> 
> She is a sweet, clever, and gentle child. There is no one else I can ask of this. 
> 
> I thank you from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
> Your obedient servant,  
>  A. Burr

Words in the following letter are nearly covered with bloodstains. Only the name is left untouched. The contents took months of the recipient's effort to recover. 

> Alexander,
> 
> We're not playing according to our roles. Aren't you the one who never threw away his shot? 
> 
> I suppose that since you did, I could not throw away mine as well. Unfortunately, I have never been good at playing according to any script that was not mine: I've missed my cue too many times. 
> 
> So I took my shot back. 
> 
> Be happy. Do great things. Carve a legacy that will be felt through the years. 
> 
> Sincerely,  
>  Your obedient servant,  
>  A. Burr
> 
> One more thing: I finally understand how you can write like you're running out if time. It only took me until the time I truly was.

_End_

**Author's Note:**

> I chose to take the musical version of Hamilton’s age – nineteen – to be truth, and also make Burr a year younger at eighteen. Because I just want the irony of Burr calling Hamilton a ‘boy’ when he was younger than him. Also this is musical ‘verse. Please allow your eyes to glide past.
> 
> Theodosia Prevost is white because she’s the wife of a British officer, and the British are represented by a white man in the musical.
> 
> Sources for Burr’s history: Paterson ([One](http://2-sp00ky.tumblr.com/post/132844669440/madtomedgar-angelica-hamilton-madtomedgar), [Two](http://angelica-hamilton.tumblr.com/post/131837057438/in-other-fraternal-societies-as-in-the-cliosophic)), [thinking of Theodosia Prevost as his sister](http://angelica-hamilton.tumblr.com/post/132360537688/at-first-burrs-feelings-for-theodosia-prevost), and his relationship with his uncle ([One](http://coolandsurefriends.tumblr.com/post/132473980889/as-he-grew-older-burr-was-pleased-to-recall), [Two](http://angelica-hamilton.tumblr.com/post/132752616883/the-oldest-son-of-president-edwards-congratulating)).
> 
> Yes, Hamilton and Burr’s lines rhymed throughout the fic. There’s a symbolic reason for this. I am nerd, hear me roar.
> 
> Uhm. Please forgive me for making up parts of the Bible. 
> 
> PS: I live off comments and I would love some for this one because I’m really unsure about how I’ve written this.


End file.
